


Nothing and Everything

by GlitterAndDoom



Series: Rhinestones and Microphones [2]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterAndDoom/pseuds/GlitterAndDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no such thing as a locked door when someone else had a key, and, oh God, he'd given Tommy his spare. - Adam attempts to release stress, and Tommy interrupts his private time at an inopportune moment. Sequel to Like Chewing on Pearls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing and Everything

**Author's Note:**

> **Title:** Nothing and Everything  
>  **Pairing:** Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff  
>  **Warnings:** Porn, inappropriate use of a microphone  
>  **Summary:** _There was no such thing as a locked door when someone else had a key, and, oh God, he'd given Tommy his spare._ Adam attempts to release stress, and Tommy interrupts his private time at an inopportune moment. Sequel to [Like Chewing on Pearls](http://archiveofourown.org/works/136013).  
>  **Author's Notes:** Written for the **glam_kink** prompt _Remember that brilliant microphone porn fic wayway back in round 1? Adam kept the mic, right? What if Tommy found out about it? WHILE Adam's in the middle of play?_ I never expected to write a sequel to that fic, and I _definitely_ never expected the sequel to turn serious. Hope the person who requested it likes it.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own none of these people, and this stuff is all lies.

The world was closing in on him again, wrapping around his throat like a noose, clenching his soul in a vise. Interviews and performances and bullshit expectations and demands and loneliness, all growing heavier and heavier every single second of every single fucking day as they looped and looped and looped through his brain. His mind couldn't stop spinning, and his thoughts twisted around each other, his brain becoming a labyrinthine tangle of chaos and tension that he couldn't escape.

Adam couldn't breathe anymore. His dream was crushing him.

With a sigh, he slid the balcony door closed and walked back to the latest in an endless parade of unfamiliar and identical hotel beds, then flopped down on his back and stared at the ceiling. Deep breath in, deep breath out, just keep breathing. He shook his head and closed his eyes, and he reached up to rub at the tightness in his neck. It didn't help. Nothing helped anymore. Blasphemous though it was, he almost wished—

No. No matter how much shit it had been putting him through, he wouldn't wish away his career. Even as it drove him crazy, it was the only thing keeping him sane. He'd worked too hard for it, had wanted it too much for too long. It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't imperfect enough. He pushed the thought away and tried to make his scattered brain focus on something else, something more pleasant.

Almost of its own accord, his hand drifted down from his neck to stroke along his chest. He wasn't in the mood, but it would be something to do that wasn't thinking, and he needed release— _any_ kind of release.

His fingertips traced over a nipple through the thin cotton of his shirt, and he fought to focus on the faint thread of heat it sent to his cock. He tried to conjure an image in his mind to get into it, thinking of long fingers sliding over his covered skin, of a beautiful man there for _him_ instead of for a fantasy, but the image was faint, elusive, and his mind drifted away again to the stage and the show and the microphone...

Fuck.

His eyes snapped open. He'd kept that damned thing, even though he shouldn't have. He stumbled on it every time he rummaged through his bags, and he'd jerk his hand back like it had been scalded by the rhinestone surface...except lately, his touch seemed to linger longer, to not shy away anymore—fuck, maybe that was what he needed. Something different, something on the razor-thin edge of wrong. Something that finally made want burn deep in his belly and finally made his cock start growing hard.

And since everybody was out partying, no one would interrupt.

He slipped off the bed and padded over to his bags, moving almost on autopilot as he sank to his knees and searched his luggage until he finally held _it_ in his hand. It was easy to find and cool to the touch, and surprisingly light for something that seemed to carry so much weight. He ran his thumb along the rhinestone-covered surface, transfixed by the texture of the dark gems beneath his skin and how they sparkled in the dim light. He knew how it would feel inside him, the delicious stretch and burn, the unforgiving hardness, the rough-edged friction, all overwhelming his nerves with every thrust.

Swallowing hard, he pressed his other hand against his cock through his jeans, and he couldn't suppress a small groan. He needed this, this one thing he knew he probably shouldn't allow himself to have. He searched through his bag for a bottle of lube and he got to his feet, wincing as his back twinged and his knees popped. God, he shouldn't have felt so old already, not even thirty yet, for fuck's sake.

He stretched, and he made his way back to the bed, then laid his supplies on the bedside table and stared at them. Want, fatigue, and stress warred within him, soul-deep exhaustion entwining with the heat of anticipation coursing through his blood and nerves. Tension started to creep in again over the arousal; even with _it_ beside him, the outside world was still lurking in the shadows of his mind, trying to wrap around his brain like tendrils of poison ivy. "Fuck." He let out a harsh breath, and he sank down onto the mattress, not taking his eyes off the microphone. A distraction, he reminded himself, and tried to push aside his thoughts with a shake of his head. Release.

Though the need to touch himself wasn't overwhelming, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up slowly, exposing his heated body to chilled air, shivering as his fingertips skimmed across his smooth skin. Once free, he tossed the shirt toward his luggage, then laid back and explored his body, closing his eyes and dragging his palms mindlessly across his chest and stomach. Again, he tried to conjure a fantasy in his mind, to create an image of loving hands following the lines of his body. His images were blurred, distorted by the too real thoughts that kept piercing through. To chase them away, he focused on running his hands over the hardness of his chest and rubbing them along the softness of his belly and dragging them back up to tease his nipples, focused on the shocks of heat and the twitch of muscles and the slow, lingering slide of skin against skin.

When his hands moved down once more, he traced along the edge of his jeans, moving solely by feel, and he pushed open the button and carefully tugged open the zipper. Its low whine loud in the silence, but not as loud as his sigh of relief as he pushed the punishingly tight pants down his hips and legs and kicked them away. His underwear was tossed aside next, freeing his cock. Freeing _him_. Idly, he stroked his hands along his thighs, his fingers roaming gently over sensitive, bare skin, teasing himself, slow and easy, letting want build inside him as his hands moved closer and closer to his cock, but never quite there. He explored his body, not holding back tiny hisses and groans of pleasure that grew louder and longer while he gave himself the attention he craved.

As the need for more turned to desperation, he took his balls in hand and rubbed them between his fingers, moaning softly as he slid his thumb over them and the heat inside him coiled tighter, more insistent. God, that felt good, all delicious heat as he played with them gently, then moved to wrap his hand around his cock. "Oh, fuck," he whispered, and he stroked himself, dragging his fingers along his length, up to slide his thumb over the damp, sensitive head, and down again, and, fuck, it was almost perfect, tight and hot and tortuously good, but not enough. Not enough.

Letting go of himself, he reached toward the table for the microphone. As soon as his hand closed around the cool, hard rod, he held it up and stared at it, twirling it between his fingers. It was beautiful, he thought, watching the light sparkle and play along the faceted edges of the dark rhinestone surface, and he remembered. Remembered the uncomfortable twist in his stomach every time he'd thought about it before, remembered the hard rush of release as he'd finally given in, remembered the band's indulgent smiles and the crowd going wild as he wrapped his mouth around the microphone's new twin and pretended to suck it like a cock.

And they had no idea.

The realization sent a thrill through his body, so strong he almost dropped the microphone. His secret, one of the few he had left in his constantly public life. He'd tried it, he'd liked it, and the world had no fucking _clue_. He smiled, sudden giddiness bursting inside him, and he laid the microphone down beside him and snapped open the lube. He slicked his fingers with the thick, smooth liquid, and reached down and slid a fingertip inside. "Oh my _God_." Discomfort-tinged pleasure ran like a livewire through his body as he pushed deeper, deeper, careful not to go too fast, not yet, not until he could breathe. No need to hurry, no need to force himself, no matter how loud his nerves screamed for more.

He let himself get used to the feeling, and when the faint pain burned away, he began to move again, thrusting in and pulling out, working himself open until he could slip in a second finger, then ease in a third, and another still. His nerves were on edge, his breaths coming in rough and sharp, his heart pounding in his chest, each pulse sending the need for more through his blood as he prepared himself and fought not to lose his mind to the overwhelming need. Not when he could have something more, something better.

With a small moan of protest, he pulled his fingers free, and he wiped his hand on the sheets and reached for the microphone. He paused to study it one last time, hesitating just for a moment, then slicked it with lube and pushed it in.

It still caught him by surprise, the raw, hot intensity, foreign and harsh and oh so perfect, so fucking perfect and overwhelming he couldn't tell where pain ended and pleasure began or if either existed at all. "Oh, _God_ ," he choked out, clenching his eyes closed, and he stopped to catch his breath. He felt like he was coming apart and coming together all at once, like everything was contradicting itself, all good and bad and hot and cold and pain and pleasure that made him almost fear moving, even as he needed more and slowly pushed it deeper. Then, it hit that place inside, and his mouth fell open in a silent groan as pure intensity consumed him. His body shook, his other hand gripped the sheets in an achingly tight fist as he pulled the microphone back and pushed it in again, as he began fucking himself, moving harder, faster, giving himself more and more as he started to lose himself to the exquisite heat.

Then, through the haze, he heard the door open. "Hey, Adam, you wanna come watch—holy _shit._ "

Adam's heart stopped, and the microphone dropped from his nerveless fingers. Tommy. Fucking _Tommy_. There was no such thing as a locked door when someone else had a key, and, oh God, he'd given Tommy his spare. Adam's heated blood turned to ice, even as he felt his cheeks burn red. He couldn't open his eyes, couldn't look up to see, but he had to see, had to know...

Tommy's eyes were as wide as his own as he stared, mouth hanging open, at the space between Adam's bare, spread legs, where the microphone still stuck out of Adam's ass. Adam tried to find the words to speak, to say something—anything—to defend this, but all he could do was swallow and bite his lip. His guts had turned to lead, his throat clenched shut, and he could see everything crumbling down around him. Fuck, what would Tommy say? It was one thing to walk in on your friend fucking himself, but to walk in on your friend fucking himself with a microphone? "Tommy, I—"

Tommy shook his head, and Adam heard him push the door closed behind him. He half-expected a tirade, but Tommy didn't stop staring, didn't stop working his gaping mouth like he was as lost for words as Adam. "It's not—" Adam began, but shut up just as quickly. It was _exactly_ what it looked like, and there would be no convincing anyone otherwise. "I...no one was supposed to see—"

The click of the lock sounded unnaturally loud in the near silence, and Adam braced himself for the fallout. Tommy's gaze didn't leave his as he moved toward the bed, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. When he got close, Adam couldn't take the weight of his unwavering gaze anymore, and he closed his eyes. He didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the light brush of callused fingertips against the soft inside of his thigh, gentle and hesitant, almost reverent. His eyes flew open once more, and he tilted his head, curious. "What—"

"Shh." Tommy took him in with his eyes, caressing his sensitive skin with his fingers, making him shiver. "Do you want me to—"

Adam stared at him, dumbstruck, unable to breathe, and then Tommy gave him a hopeful look, and Adam couldn't help but nod. "Please."

Tommy climbed onto the bed and sank down on his knees between Adam's legs. Adam watched as Tommy reached out tentatively, then wrapped his hand around the microphone. Part of him said they should talk about this, that he should wonder why Tommy wasn't walking away or calling him a freak or anything but this, but then Tommy pushed the microphone in, and Adam let out a broken moan. "Fuck," Tommy said, and it came out rough and filled with wonder.

Adam drew in a ragged breath then let it out in a rush as Tommy began pulling out the microphone and then moving it in, slow at first, experimental, making Adam whimper. "Good?"

Adam bit his lip and nodded, then choked out, "Fuck yes," even as part of him wanted to reach down and take back control. He still hadn't shaken the fear, not with Tommy staring at him silently, watching him, moving the microphone like he was afraid it would break them both.

Hell, it just might.

Adam's mind kept asking questions, analyzing more with every push and pull. Why had Tommy stayed? What was Tommy thinking? From what he could see, Tommy's face was unreadable, focused intently on the microphone, his cheeks flushed pink as he watched his own hand. Then, Tommy quickened his thrusts, and Adam threw back his head and groaned. " _Fuck_ , more," he begged. "Fucking _God_ , please."

"You sure?" Adam barely managed to reply with a whimper and a nod, and Tommy began sliding it in and out faster, harder, deeper, an almost merciless pace that had Adam clenching his fists in the sheets, unable to hold back a string of incoherent noises. It had been good before, but this…His mind was wrecked, lost to the heat of more, more, too fucking much, and disappearing more with each push and pull of the microphone. "Can't believe I'm doing this," he somehow heard Tommy say, voice nearly cracking. "Fuck, _Adam—_ "

Adam couldn't reply, not this close to the edge. He had no idea if he could even breathe anymore, his lungs moving hard and fast to keep up with the pounding of his heart and nerves. His body ached for still more, somehow still not overwhelmed, and he choked out, "Tommy, I need—" Except he had no idea what he needed anymore, couldn't tell if he wanted to come or wanted it to go on forever. Everything was too intense, too much, not enough, and then Tommy wrapped his fingers around his cock and slid his thumb over the head, and with that, Adam was gone, arching his back and coming so hard and so loud the world turned unreal.

Time lost all meaning as he descended from his high. When he became aware again, the first thing he felt was a warm, wet cloth moving across his belly. The touch was gentle and soothing, and he let himself meander back into reality, remembering how to breathe, and, slowly, how to think. He was content to lie still, letting Tommy wipe him clean, until everything finally clicked into place. Tommy. Tommy had...

He forced open his eyes, trying to prepare himself for horror and scorn, but the look on Tommy's face was more like awe, dazed and wide-eyed as he cleaned Adam's skin. He glanced up, and they stared at each other, both searching each other's gaze. Adam tried to find something—anything—to say, an explanation, an apology, _something_ , but his mind was still moving in slow motion. He needed to speak, but what was there to say? How did one explain—

"So," Tommy cleared his throat, and he looked back down toward Adam's stomach. "That was..."

Adam could only nod.

He waited for Tommy to speak, watching him closely as his mouth moved silently, trying to find words. Normally, he could read Tommy's face like a book. Nothing was normal now. "I never expected—"

"I'm sorry." The apology slipped out before Adam could even figure out what he was apologizing for.

Tommy's head jerked up, and he frowned at Adam in confusion. "For what? I'm the one who came in without knocking."

"Right." Adam swallowed, and he looked toward the balcony door. His face burned with embarrassment, and he felt more naked than ever. He wrapped his arms around his chest and felt no less exposed, no less vulnerable, not when Tommy's somehow calm gaze felt like a brand. This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to know, no one was supposed to _help_... "But I shouldn't...sorry, I—"

"What the fuck do you have to apologize for?" Tommy raised his voice, and Adam cringed. "I came in here, I fucking volunteered—"

"You don't have—"

"I _volunteered_." With a huff, Tommy threw the washcloth down on Adam's chest. Adam cast a wary glance toward him and saw that he'd crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, it's kinda weird. Never thought I'd walk in on _anyone_ fucking themselves with a microphone, y'know, and especially someone I, like, know really well." Tommy's ire seemed to deflate, and he gave Adam a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm not freaked out or pissed off or anything." Tommy shrugged. "It's sex."

"Right." Adam still couldn't ignore the uncomfortable, sick twist of fear in his gut that had quickly overtaken the afterglow. He wanted to curl up around himself but couldn't, so he held himself tighter and turned away once again. He wished Tommy would leave, but what if he never came back, or what if..."Look, maybe you should go—"

"No." Tommy reached out and began tracing an aimless pattern across Adam's stomach. "Whatever it is that's going through your head right now, it's fucking stupid. I don't hate you. I don't think you're a freak. You didn't, like, force me into anything or whatever. Just _stop_." He laid his palm flat on Adam's belly, then shook his head and pulled his hand away. "Fuck, I'm more pissed at you 'cause you think I'm gonna be a dick about this than I ever would've been about helping you out. You're one of my best friends, and, like—"

"Best friends don't..." Adam closed his eyes and heaved a heavy sigh that turned into a bitter laugh. He wasn't going to get punched in the face, and he wasn't about to have the story all over the tabloids, and he wasn't about to lose a friend. He tried to accept it, but something didn't feel right, or perhaps he was thinking too much yet again. Either way, he didn't want to look at it too closely, no matter how much he felt like he needed to look. "I'm sorry, I'm just...God, I am so fucking on edge these days, y'know? I keep expecting everything to blow up in my face, and now this happened..." He opened his eyes and gave Tommy a rueful smile. "It was supposed to be a distraction. Tension release."

Tommy ducked his head. "And I fucked it up?"

"No. Yes." Adam waved a hand helplessly and let it fall back onto the bed. "I don't know." He took a deep breath to try to calm himself, and he released it slowly. "You're really not mad?"

"No way, man." Tommy shrugged. "It was kinda hot. I didn't expect—" Abruptly, Tommy stopped, and Adam's jaw nearly dropped in surprise. A flicker of fear crossed Tommy's face, and before Adam could question him, Tommy grabbed the washcloth and hopped off of the bed. "Never mind. It's getting kind of late, and I—"

Tommy started to walk away, and Adam sat up and grabbed him by the arm. "Okay, yeah, we _need_ to talk about this."

"It's _nothing_ ," Tommy insisted.

"It's not nothing! You just said...you think that's _nothing?_ "

"Adam..." Tommy pulled his hand away and looked at Adam with pleading eyes. "Can we please not...Look, I don't think we should let this complicate things. I helped you get off. 's no big deal. Let's not fuck things up by making it one."

Adam could see the desperation in Tommy's face, the way Tommy looked like he was silently begging him to stop, and, reluctantly, Adam nodded. "Okay," he said, and Tommy breathed a sigh of relief. "No big deal." The words sounded false to his own ears, but Tommy seemed satisfied. Adam faked a smile, but it fell quickly, and he reached down and pulled the covers up over his hips. "Promise you won't say anything?"

"Of course. It'll be like it never happened."

Adam watched as Tommy took the washcloth into the bathroom, and he murmured, "Right," then sank back on the bed. He folded his hands over his stomach and stared at the ceiling, trying not to think as he listened to Tommy move. Fear had replaced itself with unease, a vague and sour sickness deep inside, mixing with stabs of disappointment that he tried to ignore. Being alone would have been better. Nothing and everything had changed. Nothing and everything.

"G'night, Adam," Tommy said, and left before Adam could reply. With a sigh, Adam rolled over and turned off the lamp, and he stared at the microphone on the table, shining in the dim light filtering through a crack in the curtains.

This wasn't over.


End file.
